'Mad, mad boy!' said my mother. 'Society will—'
'You have once or twice before mentioned society, mother. If I find Winifred Wynne, I shall assuredly marry her, unless prevented by the one obstacle I have mentioned. If I marry her I shall, if it so please me and her, take her into society.'
'Into society!' she replied, with ineffable scorn.
'And I shall say to society, "Here is my wife.'"
'And when society asks, "Who is your wife?'"
'I shall reply, "She is the daughter of the drunken organist who desecrated my father's tomb, though that concerns you not:—her own speciality, as you see, is that she is the flower of all girlhood."'
'And when society rejects this earthly paragon?'
'Then I shall reject society.'
'Reject society, boy!' said my mother. 'Why, Cyril Aylwin himself, the bohemian painter who has done his best to cheapen and vulgarise our name, is not a more reckless, lawless leveller than you. And, good heavens! to him, and perhaps afterwards to you, will come—the coronet.'
And she left the room.